


Wilted Days

by sobachka



Category: The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern
Genre: Backstory, One Shot, TNC - Freeform, the night circus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25556935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobachka/pseuds/sobachka
Summary: Hector Bowen one shot---"Is this magic?" the girl whispers at last."If you want it to be." he says, finding he rather liked having an audience to witness his display.He gives her a crooked smile, then lets the flower fall into her hand, as natural as if she'd picked it from the shrubbery herself.The girl lifts the flower between her fingers, curiously, admiring the smooth petals.Then a voice calls out from across the fields, and she winces."I ought to go," she says, holding it out to him. The boy shakes his head."It's for you," he says, "to remember me by.""It will wilt in time, won't it? I can remember you best if you gave me your name."He considers this for a moment before responding. Alexander does not think names are important, so it would not matter if he shared his own, would it?"Hector," he says at last, "Hector Bowen."
Kudos: 3





	Wilted Days

There were very few things the boy did not believe in.  
Some might associate that fact with his young age, as he'd only just turned fourteen, a great feat in his eyes though not that grand an accomplishment to anyone else. But the truth, as the boy knew it, was that not believing in a thing served only to close the doors of imagination, barring you from further discovery.  
And he wanted to discover it all.  
That is only part of the reason he was in the grassy fields on the afternoon of what would be his final day as a student.  
He had been staring intently at a small flower tucked between a few tufts of grass, studying its shape, the way a thin vine curled out of the ground, parting for a single oval-shaped leaf before opening up into a violet bloom, hints of yellow staining the inside of the delicate petals. There was a touch of dew still clinging to one of the petals, refusing to part with it despite the breeze attempting to carry it away.  
He focuses on that, his tutor's voice in his head, each detail serves a purpose, even if the how is unclear yet.  
The boy disagreed. He believed it was not the details that were important, but the full image they created when put together. A person seeing a grass field from the top of a mountain would not notice the residue of rain or the traces of mud from earlier dwellers.  
But the test does not care what he believes, so the boy keeps his eyes on the flower until the image is ingrained in his mind, until he knows the flower as well as he knows his own body. The way it sways in the breeze, the way tilts, favoring right to left likely from an incident where it was stepped on, or a more intense storm.  
And then, he lets his eyes slide shut. And to anyone else, he is just a little boy, crouched in an empty field, lost in the beauty of nature, the feeling of the breeze against his skin.  
When his eyes open, he holds his clenched fist out in front of him, and let's his fingers uncurl, one by one.  
There, in the center of his palm, is a perfect replica of the flower in the field.  
"How did you do that?"  
The boy jumps at the sound, tripping over his new boots and falling onto the grass, hands just coming up to stop his fall, and he catches himself, hovering just inches above the grass, his body suspended in the air.  
The flower sways gently with the almost-crash.  
He scowls at it, and at the unseen voice, frustrated at his lack of focus. Another reason he disliked his mentor's methods was that they required him to be fully consumed in the task, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to any surprises.  
The boy lifts himself up without touching the ground, letting his feet settle into the mud so he does not scare the newcomer.  
He turns and is surprised to see a girl standing there. Her skin is a deep brown color and her eyes are alight with interest, rather than fear. For a moment, he is too stunned to say anything.  
Alexander does not let him talk to very many people.  
"I apologise for scaring you," she says, though the amused gleam in her eyes suggests otherwise.  
"I was not scared," the boy replies defensively, recalling the hundreds of lessons he'd been forced to endure to 'banish his fears'. "Only surprised."  
The girl nods once, though the corner of her mouth lifts slightly in an almost-smile.  
"Of course," she concedes, then nods at his closed fist. "Can you show me what you were doing?"  
The boy's lessons had involved more thinking than speaking, reading over writing, theory over application. He had not been taught very much about interacting with other people. Particularly, girls who wish to see him display his skills.  
He swallows, then opens both hands in front of him, the way he'd seen street magicians trick their audiences- they would tuck a coin into their sleeve or conceal it between two fingers while displaying the other hand and drawing the crowd's attention away from the real trick.  
Con men, Alexander called them. But he preferred to think of them as clever men.  
The girl gasps, the same way the audience does with every performance, and he feels a surge of pride at the sound.  
"But where has the flower gone?" She whispers, leaning in closer to examine his now-empty palms.  
It was never enough to make a thing disappear, of course. A good trick good only be fully completed when the magician brought the thing back.  
"Let me see your hand," he says, and watches her hesitate for a moment, brown eyes watchful.  
Then she nods, lifting her right hand so it was visible to them both. She frowns.  
Nothing happens.  
The boy smiles to himself. How many times had he practiced this in the mirror?  
He lets his own two hands cup her's, and hears the girl suck in a surprised breath. There, from the center of her small hand, the same flower grows. The girl gasps, retracting her hand quickly, but he holds on.  
Her brown eyes are wide as the boy prompts the flower to blossom anew, still resting in her palm.  
"Is this magic?" the girl whispers at last.  
"If you want it to be." he says, finding he rather liked having an audience to witness his display.  
He gives her a crooked smile, then lets the flower fall into her hand, as natural as if she'd picked it from the shrubbery herself.  
The girl lifts the flower between her fingers, curiously, admiring the smooth petals.  
Then a voice calls out from across the fields, and she winces.  
"I ought to go," she says, holding it out to him. The boy shakes his head.  
"It's for you," he says, "to remember me by."  
"It will wilt in time, won't it? I can remember you best if you gave me your name."  
He considers this for a moment before responding. Alexander does not think names are important, so it would not matter if he shared his own, would it?  
"Hector," he says at last, "Hector Bowen."


End file.
